Dark Detective Dexter
by Shadow of One
Summary: An Ice-Truck Killer Copy-Cat is on the loose in Miami, and it is up to Dark Detective Dexter to solve the case.


Tonight's the night.

For weeks now, a certain someone has been insisting that we have a private rendezvous. The constant nagging in my head has started to drive me insane, and it keeps me from focusing on anything else.

So. Tonight's the night:

That I take Rita on a date to the Annual Miami Dade County Art Show.

I guess these are the things you have to put up with when you're in a "serious relationship" with someone: compromising your alone time to do something that doesn't interest you in the slightest.

And I suppose I am in a "serious relationship" with my human camouflage, Rita.

That's not quite right, I really shouldn't talk about Rita that way. I'm just frustrated that I'm going to be spending my night walking around some white hall gallery, musing over hideous renditions of what some pompous "artist" believes is his unique interpretation of the sun rising along the coast of Miami.

Truth is, Rita's voice isn't the only one that has been nagging me for the past few weeks for a special date. My Dark Passenger has been whispering words of whimsical woe into my ears, and I need to heed the call. I could be out tonight, picking up a playmate and by proxy, _sweeping the gutters of the fair city of Miami and making your walk home that much safer_. Citizen of the world Dexter.

Unfortunately, I'll be stuck in the rec center at town hall watching dust collect on a bunch of wanna-be Picasso's.

Sitting at my computer in my little back office, I tab through the criminal database for the salt of the Earth, even though there's nothing I can do to change these plans. Rita got a babysitter, which is nearly impossibly for a Friday night in Miami, though I can't imagine why she would want to waste a perfectly good babysitter on a trip to an art expo.

I check my watch and sigh before starting to pack up my things. When the door to my office bursts open without a knock, I turn to stare directly into the massive pectoral muscles of one Sergeant James Doakes. I continue to stare directly into his chest and straighten my back as I salute.

"Sergeant!" I bark.

"Shut the fuck up Morgan, you think that shit is fucking funny?"

"I gotta admit that I was hoping for at least a giggle, Sergeant."

"Well too bad for you, this ain't a fucking comedy club, it's a police department and I don't want to hear any of your fucking funny business."

"One day Sergeant, I'm going to keep a tally of how many times you swear per sentence."

"Great, you can add that to your other list of fucking freaky ass hobbies that you have."

"To which hobbies would you be referring, Sergeant? I have noticed your penchant for following me lately, would you perhaps be talking about my bowling average? I happen to think that a steady one-eighty isn't too shabby—"

"Would you cut the shit, Morgan! I came in here to ask you about the paperwork for the copy-cat of the Ice-Truck Killer!"

Right. The Ice-Truck Killer. The Tamiami Slasher. Or as I knew him, my late brother: Brian Moser, murdered by maliciously monstrous Dexter. The only person in the world who would ever accept me for who—or what—I am, and I killed him to protect Deb. Darling dumb, kept in the dark, Deborah. It really had been touching how she stood up to Doakes on the night I kept my brother from killing her.

If I had emotions, it most likely would have meant much more.

"Well, do you have the fucking file or not?"

My gaze flicked to Doaks' face, it was deadly serious with a steely-eyed look, as though he was trying to see through me with x-ray vision. I always got the impression that the pleasant Sergeant was always sucking on something sour.

"Right there on the desk," I pointed with raised eyebrows, "go ahead and be my guest."

There wouldn't be much for the Sergeant to find, or to go off of for that matter within the report. It was all standard. A copy-cat killer. He drained the victims of their blood, and left their bodies hiding in dumpsters—usually prostitutes. There was one different woman though recovered earlier today, she had been a high-class aristocratic type of woman: Stacey Teagues had been her name, entrepreneur had been her game. Currently her husband was undergoing various interrogations to see if his alibi would crack.

It wouldn't. He didn't do this. But then again, neither did my brother…so then, who?

Dark Detective Dexter is on the case.


End file.
